Читать книгу Wild: - Noelle Mack - Страница 7

London, 1815. October…

“A woman is most beautiful when she is waiting to be kissed,” Kyril said. He looked down at her, a sensual fire in his gaze, and his thumb traced the line of her chin. He tipped her face up to his. “And you are the most beautiful woman in London.”

Vivienne Sheridan did not mind if he thought so. Her lips parted as she began to reply to his gallant compliment—but he spoke first.

“May I kiss you, Vivienne?”

He wasted no time. Neither would she. “Yes,” she murmured. A kiss was only a kiss.

Kyril smiled. “Well, then. Come a little closer.”

She obeyed without saying a word. His arm encircled her waist. Her eyes closed as his hand moved down to the side of her neck. He stroked the sensitive skin with his fingertips, easing away every trace of her nervousness. To be touched so tenderly felt wonderful. Blissfully aroused by what he was doing, Vivienne sighed, wishing she was not…

In her drawing room. Fully dressed.

His strong hands made her feel naked. How she wanted his kiss.

But his lips only brushed hers before his mouth moved to her ear and he spoke again, very softly. “May I stay the night?”

She had not expected that. Or at least not so soon. Her answer came quickly. “N-no.”

“Why not?” His low, very masculine voice was as persuasive as his caress.

Vivienne straightened up, a motion that made her bosom rise within the snug-fitting bodice of her gown. She quickly tugged at the décolleté neckline, aware that the delicate lace edge might not be enough to conceal—she stopped when she saw him glance down at it and then up again at her face.

He was too tall not to have seen her nipples.

They tightened. She quelled a wanton urge to wind her arms around his neck and press her breasts against the fine linen of his shirt. But Vivienne was unwilling to leave his embrace and equally unwilling to give in too easily.

“Why not? Ah—I would rather sleep alone.”

Her new bed was her sanctuary, a bower in which she retreated from the world, piled with soft pillows and hung with rose-embroidered curtains. No man had ever shared it.

“Really?”

He drew her body back to his. He inclined his head and nibbled her neck precisely where he had stroked her. Vivienne tried not to moan. The pleasurable stimulation was almost too much to bear, and the light trace of stubble on his chin only added to her excitement.

“Yes. Really.”

“Hmm.” He ceased his gentle biting and relaxed his hold somewhat. But she did not move away from him.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, his gaze heavy-lidded and dreamy when he finally looked at her face again. He touched the small emerald in her earlobe, toying with it. That too was stimulating. It was clear enough what was on his mind.

“Pretty earrings,” he said at last. “The same green as your incomparable eyes.”

“Not quite.”

“You do not like compliments.”

“I do not trust them. But I like them well enough.”

“I meant it when I said you were the most beautiful woman in London.”

“No doubt you did.”

He gave her a level look that held a hint of amusement. Then he touched the other earring. “Can I persuade you to take these off?”

As a prelude to…she would do well not to think about taking anything off if she was going to refuse him. “No.”

“Then I will take them off for you.” Before she could stop him, he removed both jewels and dropped them down her bodice. “There. They will be safe enough.”

Her eyes widened with surprise. A master thief could not have done the trick more deftly.

“Oh!” Her indignant protest faded away when he bent down again to take her earlobe in his mouth and suck it gently. “You—mmm. Never mind.”

He released it. “Should I stop?”

Determined beast. She did like what he was doing. “Not yet,” Vivienne answered. “But you must go soon. You do understand that I like to be alone.”

“If you say so.” He turned his attention to the other earlobe and sucked it harder than the first.

His lips and tongue were warm and wet and tight on that tiny part of her body. What he was doing felt so good. So very good.

“Everyone knows that I do,” she managed to say.

He let go and laughed against her ear, a throaty sound, almost like a growl. “Yes, I have heard a few rumors to that effect. I am glad to have no rival.”

“That is not what I said—”

“I know.” He radiated self-confidence as well as heat. His hands moved to her shoulders, stroking her bare skin until languorous warmth spread through her. “But I suspected as much.”

Vivienne arched her back, wanting and not wanting a more intimate embrace. She placed her hands upon his chest to push him away, then felt the strong beat of his heart and let them rest there.

Kyril kissed her neck once more and lifted his head. She could not help but meet his unfathomable gaze. His eyes seemed to take in everything but they reflected nothing. Not the candles or the fire in the drawing room. No detail of her face.

He gazed down at her and Vivienne felt a dizzying sensation of vertigo.

What was—that? For a fraction of a second she saw something strange in the darkness of his eyes. A glimpse of a wild and forsaken land…an otherworld buried in blue-white snow…

She blinked and the illusion vanished. She told herself she’d had too much champagne. She was tired. Imagining things. She would not explain.

He seemed to understand, though, that something had upset her. He brushed away a tendril of the dark hair that clung to her cheek and then his hand slid over her shoulder to the bare skin of her upper back. He stroked her there, taking his time.

She rested her head against his chest, limp with pleasure. His shirt had a pleasant fragrance, as if it had been washed in herbal water. There was a much more masculine smell mingled with it—the warm smell of his skin underneath the shirt. Kyril clasped her nape, calming her. Her neck curved in graceful submission. She could not move, did not want to move. For a moment, the feeling of falling ebbed away and Vivienne felt deliciously safe.

No woman is safe with Kyril Taruskin…

The thought vanished in an instant.

“Come away with me,” he murmured. “The drive to my house is not long.”

She could not think of a very good reason to say no. She came up with a merely serviceable one. “My servants will see.”

“They are abed.”

“But—”

“We can continue this conversation on the way.”

“Kyril, if you—”

“We do not have to talk, of course. But a carriage with closed curtains is a wonderfully private place. As private as a confessional. Intimate secrets, softly voiced—there is nothing more exciting.”

The warm hand on her nape stayed where it was. Vivienne tilted her head back to smile at him. “Perhaps. But I have no significant sins to confess.”

“Give me time. You will.”

Vivienne laughed a little but made no reply.

“Just tell me what you want, my darling. Let me satisfy you.”

“Kyril, I cannot think when you hold me like this.” She did not really want to think. Such was the power of his touch. His strong hand upon her nape was deeply soothing and stimulating at the same time. “No—do not move your hand—not yet.”

He gazed down at her, his eyes dark with passion. “Grant me one night, Vivienne.”

“Ahh—”

“My coachman will bring you back in the hour before dawn. No one will know.”

She hesitated. “It is already past midnight.”

“Is it?”

“The church bells rang. Did you not hear them?”

He shook his head and moved his hand from her nape, tucking a fallen lock back into her upswept hair. The passion in his eyes was shadowed with tenderness.

The candles had burned low. Without his hand upon her skin, Vivienne felt a sudden chill down her spine. The fire had dwindled down to a broken mass of gray and scarlet embers, dancing with shivering little flames. She avoided his intent gaze, not wanting to see his mouth so close to hers.

He still had not kissed her—not really. She had said yes to that. But nothing more.

Vivienne steeled herself to resist whatever came next. The tenderness in his eyes had vanished. His moods were mercurial. Now Kyril was smiling down at her in a wicked way. Ready to pounce.

He was wicked. She was well aware of his reputation. And he was wild in equal measure, for all that he dressed so elegantly. Kyril Taruskin’s dark clothes were set off by a pure white linen shirt, its tall collar filled with a black silk cravat. Above that, a strong jaw and sensual mouth. An aristocratic nose. And those odd eyes. Intent upon her.

With a start, she felt Kyril’s hands trace her collarbone and then move lower, over the swell of her breasts.

She gasped but she did not say no.

He cupped the lush flesh and gently squeezed, again and again. The sensation was deeply erotic. Suddenly all she wanted was to lie down with him, let him suckle her until she cried for joy, running her fingers into his dark hair while he buried his face in her breasts…She swayed against him, feeling something small and hard prick her skin—the earrings.

Breathing hard, Kyril released her breasts and circled his palms over the erect nipples nestled in the lace of her bodice, looking into her eyes now with intense desire. Teasing her. Exciting her. He would have her dress up to her waist next to fondle her bare bottom if she let him—how far was he going to go?

As far as you let him.

No. However handsome, however gifted in the art of pleasing women, Kyril Taruskin was not going to have her tonight.

“That is enough,” she said softly. “I will not go with you and you cannot stay here.”

He nodded, a curt motion at odds with the sensual slowness of his caresses, and ceased what he was doing.

“As you wish, Vivienne. When a lady commands, a gentleman obeys.”

It was rather the other way around, she thought nervously. His tone was neutral, his words polite, but there was an unmistakable steeliness behind both. His reluctance to concede was obvious—he was no longer stimulating her nipples but his hands had moved down again to clasp her waist.

Vivienne drew in her breath and his grip tightened ever so slightly. It was easy to imagine how good those hands would feel on her if she were naked before him, her dress upon the floor in a silken heap, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, her corset unlaced and tossed aside…

But he might insist on you wearing the corset and nothing else. To start.

Her breasts ached, not from his sensual fondling of them but from wanting more of it. Her flesh betrayed her. Still and all, his expert caresses had not left her dress in disarray. Her breasts were nicely uplifted and pressed together by the exceptionally fine corset that he was not going to see. Her damned nipples were as hard as the emerald earrings he had playfully dropped into her décolletage. The faceted stones pricked her but she was not going to fish them out. He would only look at her, eyes hot with desire, while she retrieved them—and then she would have no chance at all. No, her dress would stay on and her hair would stay up. Vivienne pressed her lips together and held back a sigh.

There was no real reason to refuse him. But it would be interesting to make Kyril wait for what he wanted. His lust for her would know no bounds—and his erotic ingenuity would come to the fore to win her. The moment of ultimate surrender would be intensely pleasurable for them both.

Vivienne favored him with a look that she hoped was stern. The gossip that she had tried to ignore in the last months was not wrong. Kyril Taruskin had a legendary talent for seduction and making love. His conquests were many. Now she understood why.

Of course, no one had ever mentioned him loving anyone. Yet it did not matter, not to Vivienne. Certainly it would be foolish of her to think that she was or would be different, somehow, from the others. Still…she wanted him.

He cleared his throat with a slight cough. “Where were we?”

She cast a meaningful glance at the door.

“Now I remember. You want me to go.”

“Yes.”

He gave her a wry look. “But you are not sure.”

“I am quite sure of what I want, Kyril.”

“Are you?” He grinned at her. Deep-carved dimples appeared, framing his sensual mouth.

Annoyed by his amusement, she tipped her head to one side. “You need not grin like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a damned wolf.”

Kyril laughed. “Perhaps I am one. I do follow my instincts and I can sense your mixed emotions.”

“How?”

“By what I see.” He gestured at her glass on the low table near the fireplace. “Champagne left unfinished. The ashes of a fire that has burned too low.”

She almost smiled. “As good a way as any to describe the end of an evening.”

“Is it?”

His gaze locked with hers. Damn him—the mixture of intelligent amusement and sexual desire in his expression made her feel hot all over again.

“Vivienne…” His voice was deep and yearning.

She shook her head and Kyril let go of her at last. Vivienne was almost disappointed.

Until he pounced. His full lips captured hers for a kiss that made her tremble. Encircled once more by his arms, lifted slightly, she barely felt the floor beneath her thin-soled evening shoes. Her stockinged toes curled and wiggled under the embroidered flowers on her silk shoes as freely as if she were barefoot.

Kyril’s lips were soft, his technique sensual in the extreme. Opening her lips, his tongue tasted her mouth as if he found her utterly delicious. His kiss was tender but not in the least tentative. His self-assurance and his skill compelled her to respond fully, pressing her body to his at last, arching with the pleasure of allowing so powerful a man to claim her, however briefly…

But the kiss went on and on.

Vivienne was the one who ended it. When he stopped to draw breath, she placed her hands on his chest once more and pushed him away with firm resolve. He stood his ground. She was the one who moved.

Kyril studied her. A few candles sputtered and went out, their hollow stubs filled with molten wax. A thin thread of smoke rose from one extinguished wick and hung in the air. He neither moved nor spoke.

He seemed taller and more masterful, growing in apparent size as the light diminished. Another illusion. Vivienne reached up a hand to rub her eyes and he caught her by the wrist. Her fingers curled into a loose fist, as if to defend herself, but his long thumb gently forced her fingers open.

That done, he pressed a tender kiss into her palm. Then he released her and she let her arm fall to her side, feeling suddenly bereft. How had he ensnared her with such ease?

“Kyril…when will I see you again?” She bit her lip. That had sounded far too eager. Almost girlish.

Kyril only shrugged. “Soon.” He looked at her and murmured a few words in Russian under his breath.

“What are you saying?”

“That you are utterly alluring. And dangerous.”

The first part of his reply was flattering, but the last puzzled her. It was he who was dangerous. To her peace of mind. And to her heart, if she was not careful.

Still, she was feeling reckless. It had been too long since she had let a man get close to her and Kyril was no ordinary man.

“Will you not—” She hesitated, looking at him warily.

“Stay?” He shook his head, looking down at her parted lips. “No. Forgive me, Vivienne. As it happens, it is for the best that you asked me to go. I have just remembered that I was supposed to meet someone.”

Highly unlikely. But she supposed it served her right for putting him off.

“After midnight?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I cannot be late.”

He could not possibly be telling the truth. No, they were playing the same game with each other. Advance and Retreat.

“Then it is a good thing you remembered it.”

He only nodded.

She would not ask one word more. Vivienne silently reproved herself for her pique. She hoped he did not see the tinge of angry scarlet in her cheeks.

They got through the adieus politely enough. He turned to go without touching her again.

The sound of his boot heels on the stairs died away and the front door closed behind him. Vivienne went to the window. She pulled the heavy drape aside and looked out in time to see him stride to his black coach. Its windows were shielded on the inside of the glass with rich material she could just see under the streetlamps. Their light revealed the falling rain, turning it into sparks of gold that pattered down upon the black-lacquered top of the coach.

The sight was beautiful but it filled her with melancholy. Rain often did. There were times when she could not stand the sound of it against the windowpanes.

How long had it been falling? The night had been clear when her other guests departed one by one. Of course, that was hours ago. In Kyril’s arms, kissed so well, she had not heard the storm blow in.

The horses shook their heavy heads, jingling the bits in their velvet mouths as their master approached. They were stamping their hooves on the wet cobblestones, eager to be off. As he passed a dark doorway, Vivienne saw something move. She narrowed her eyes when a man stepped forth from it.

His long, matted beard and ugly coat gave him the look of a beggar or a lunatic. The sleeves were so long his hands were covered and the hat he wore was strangely shaped.

Vivienne studied him. He might be only a poor foreigner. London was full of them.

Kyril did not seem to see the man. She put a hand upon the window, ready to open it and warn him…no, it was no longer necessary. The rain drove the bearded man back into the doorway. Vivienne retreated behind the drapery.

The coachman turned around and tipped his hat to Kyril, spilling the rain accumulated in its rolled-up brim upon his own greatcoat. She imagined the fellow’s curse—she could not hear it. The heavy rain obliterated the sounds outside.

Kyril spoke to him before he got into the carriage, swinging up one long leg and entering without a backward glance at her house. Damn the man. Where could he be going after midnight? She regretted her decision to make him wait. She ought to have let him have his way with her, permitted herself the physical pleasure he was so determined to give her, however fleeting it might be. Men’s hearts were fickle.

As was her own, she reflected. Not that she had always been cynical. But London was a sophisticated city that did not hold love in high regard. After some years of dwelling here, she no longer hoped to find it again. She had loved once and loved well—but not wisely.

Her gaze fell upon a closed case on the nearby shelf, a flat thing that looked like a little book but was made of engraved metal. It held a miniature that she often looked at. She had taken it out from her desk just that morning. She had painted the image herself, with mousehair brushes on an ivory oval, of a small face, like an angel, with closed eyes. It was a face she had seen only once, as if in a dream, when she had been nearly out of her mind with grief. But she had captured its delicacy of features and expression. The miniature had become a sort of amulet that she always kept nigh, but not where anyone would see it.

Vivienne crossed in front of the window and swiftly picked it up. She opened a drawer in her desk and put the little case away, then happened to touch the letter that had come for her today.

Her hand drew back as if she touched something filthy. But the folded paper was immaculately white, folded to hide the lines penned upon it. It had come from someone demanding a meeting. Someone she knew well—and never wanted to see again. But she would have to.

If only…. Suddenly she wanted Kyril to hold her, right now, until the sun came up. For whatever reason he pleased. He might do as he wished with her. She craved his warmth, his sensuality, his amorous determination—animal qualities that had nothing to do with romantic nonsense. Not loving but definitely life-giving. He might ease the coldness in her heart. That would be enough.

The wheels of the black coach moved slowly forward, then back, as the horses strained against their harnesses. Radiating misery from his dripping hat to his drenched back, the coachman settled himself stolidly upon his high seat and flicked the whip at the horses. The carriage lurched a little over the cobblestones of Cheyne Row and rolled on. She watched it rattle away around a corner.

He would be home soon. She had never been to his house but she knew that Kyril lived only a few miles away, near Grosvenor Square. She pulled the drape closed, imagining the place for a few seconds.

His clothes were not at all showy; his house was likely to be just as sober. It would have, oh, tall columns framing the entrance. It would be built of pale stone blocks fitted together with the utmost precision. A paneled black door with no glass inserts and no hint of what was beyond it. She added just one touch of whimsy to her mental picture: a polished doorknocker in the shape of an animal’s head, holding the heavy ring that did the actual knocking in its brass jaws. He was not British, so it did not have to be the obligatory lion. No, a wolf would do nicely.

He had money. What of it? So did she. But she was not sure where his came from. Months ago, a mutual friend had explained the Taruskin family’s long association with the British Society of Merchant-Adventurers. She had not listened closely, preferring to look at Kyril.

Now, with nothing else to do but think, she tried to remember what bits she had heard. The immense wealth of the Russian aristocracy…the vast country’s unexploited riches, there for the taking…the necessity for the Society’s foreign agents to learn excellent English…

Glancing constantly at Kyril as her friend spoke, captivated by everything from his handsomeness to his height, she had paid little attention to any of it.

Her former lover, a duke who lived apart from his cantankerous duchess, had introduced her to Kyril—without explanations—shortly after his arrival in London. Horace had seen to it that Vivienne was often thrust into the company of the dashing newcomer at the assemblees and balls they attended, social occasions at which the duchess never appeared.

Had Horace hoped Kyril would sweep her off her feet when he was bored with her?

It had not happened. Kyril had been the soul of propriety until tonight. Horace had been forced to take up with someone else and incur the expenses of two mistresses for a while. The duke had complained that Vivienne was as serene as a statue when his eye wandered elsewhere.

He had not been entirely wrong about Kyril, however. Her attraction to him had been obvious to an old roué like Horace. Vivienne had been curious about Kyril, invited him to several soirées of her own, hoping to draw him out or at least overhear if he talked of anything more personal than the theater and music and books. But he never had. Kyril was discreet to a fault.

He had reason to be, she supposed. Tonight had been her first encounter with the man behind the gentlemanly façade. So far, he lived up to his legend. The breathless whispers about his prowess as a lover—she had overheard those—were undoubtedly right. The subtlety and skillfulness of his lovemaking made her want more. Far more.

Vivienne opened the window at last, heedless of the rain. She needed a breath of air. Without his vital presence, the drawing room seemed dull and stifling. She was restless, as she so often was at night, hating to be confined.

During the hours of daylight, she might walk out when she pleased, unaccompanied, but night was a very different matter. The duke had seldom come to her then, saying that once the sun went down, she became a different woman.

Her own woman. Not properly attentive to his dull anecdotes or his sexual demands. Those at least had the advantage of being quickly satisfied at any hour of the day.

She looked again for the beggar in the long coat but saw no sign of him. He was hidden in the shadows or no longer there at all. Drawing a deep breath, Vivienne closed her eyes, refreshed by the cool air. Despite the storm, she could just hear the Thames, flowing through the darkness of the London night toward the distant sea.

After a few minutes, Vivienne closed the window quietly. She might as well retreat to her study and read through the lonely hours that remained of the night. Kyril’s kisses had stirred her too much to sleep.

Sexual desire, if satisfied, was as good a cure for loneliness as any. Love was not. A dalliance with the mysterious Russian would do no harm. How odd that he thought of her as dangerous. Surely he was teasing.

Once downstairs, she entered the study and locked the door behind her. A servant had lit an oil lamp some hours ago and forgotten to blow it out. The golden glow brightened the pleasantly cluttered room. Vivienne pushed aside a small crate with her foot. She still had not unpacked everything she had brought from her apartments in Audley Street.

But the house already looked like hers. Most of the rooms were furnished to her taste, if haphazardly. She sank with a sigh upon the chaise. There were books stacked upon a small table by its side, not very neatly.

She looked at the titles imprinted in worn gold letters upon their spines and picked out one Kyril had given her months ago. Folktales, translated from the Russian.

Vivienne kicked off her embroidered shoes. Then she swung her legs up and made herself comfortable, opening the book without looking inside it. She set it down upon the front of her dress, and got a pillow behind her neck.

Lying down, relaxing, she could not help but think of Kyril and wish again that he were lying by her, holding her in his strong arms, warming her body with his own. His expert kisses—his masterful strength—his passionate whispers and his repeated invitations to come away with him—ah, she had been far too quick to say no.

He intended to become her lover, though love would have nothing to do with what she wanted from him. However, she intended to say yes the very next time she saw him.

Vivienne let her eyes drift closed, seeing his dark blue ones as clearly as if he were above her. Her hand rested on the book of fairytales.

Imagining him pressing down upon her, his long thigh between hers as he worked her dress up to her waist, arousing her with ardent caresses…then…naked…their bodies entwined…her sensual fantasy became a dream of pure pleasure.

Vivienne did not remember falling asleep.

She wakened just before dawn. The lamp was still lit, but the clear oil in the reservoir was nearly gone. She glanced at the clock on the mantel to confirm the hour: five o’clock. Then she looked down at her disheveled dress, remembering what she had done. She must have pulled it down to keep herself warm.

She hugged a pillow to herself, pretending it was Kyril.

Something was poking her in the side—the book of folktales. In his own way, he was with her. The thought pleased her and she took it up again. Vivienne yawned and stretched with the book in her hand. Once awake, she rarely went back to sleep. She opened the small volume, not awake enough to read, either, but willing to glance at the illustrations. She rifled through it and stopped at a thin sheet of crinkled, transparent paper protecting a hand-colored page underneath.

This she lifted carefully, revealing a picture of a Russian church, its onion-shaped domes decorated with dazzling touches of real gold. Peasant women in bright skirts and shawls stood by its massive doors.

Then, before her disbelieving eyes, the doors in the picture swung open and the women passed between them, their skirts swaying. She even heard their voices, tiny, sweet, and distant—and was that thread of smoke issuing from the sanctuary…incense? She swore she could smell it.

No. It could not be.

For the second time in one night, she had seen things that were not there. She was awake but still somehow dreaming. The solution to that was to go to her bed. Something about the comfortable chaise made her indulge in wayward fantasies, and Kyril had made them worse.

Unless there was some hidden magic in the book of Russian folktales…she dismissed the thought as impossible and slid the thin ribbon bound into the spine over the page to mark her place.

Vivienne raised her head, looking toward the window. Black, utterly black, the sky showed not a trace of morning light. The darkness outside seemed to press against the panes. She was glad for the circle of light that the lamp provided.

Her bedroom would be just as dark and her bed would be cold. If the chambermaid had brought up a warming pan of coals, the effect would be long gone. Slipping between chilly sheets by herself did not appeal to her. She decided to stay where she was. Vivienne opened the book at random to another page and began to read.

In the far, far north lived the Roemi, men like no other, warriors of legendary strength, born under the blue sun that never sets. They were magi, endowed with supernatural powers…and masters of the great ice wolves that are no more. The Roemi rode the freezing winds that howled down over the vast steppes of Russia…

The tale captivated her. So did the illustration of a Roemi warrior. She marveled at his fierce beauty. For all that he was standing in snow, he wore a loincloth and not much else. There were tattoos upon his bare chest that outlined his muscle.

The picture was beautifully detailed. She could see the stippled patterns on the soft boots laced with hide that covered his calves. His mighty thighs were bare, bulging with more muscle that looked real enough to touch. The warrior was about to throw a spear, his brawny upper body half-twisted, his throwing arm drawn back. His hair was long and dark, with thin braids at the temple.

Vivienne admired him, noting with an inward smile how much he resembled Kyril, who was also tall and dark and beautiful in a very masculine way. His movements had the same quality of utmost readiness as this imaginary warrior, eternally poised to strike down an unseen enemy.

She read more of the fanciful tale, then turned back to the picture, touching the Roemi man with a fingertip. He felt…warm. How very odd. She touched the middle of his chest and—dear God—felt a faint but unmistakable heartbeat. Vivienne flung the book away from her.

It fell facedown on the floor and lay there. She put a hand over her own heart, willing it to stop racing, and breathed deeply.

She sat upon the chaise and extended her foot toward the book, pushing it away from her with a stockinged toe. Nothing happened. She heard no sound, however faint. But she was not going to pick it up again.

Not until morning. The sun would most likely shine strongly tomorrow after such a heavy rain, with matter-of-fact cheerfulness that would erase her weariness and her strange thoughts. Her restless hours of sleep had been worse than none at all. Exhaustion was causing her to imagine things.

Vivienne stood, stepping carefully around the book, and went to the mirror on the study wall. Her hair was half up and half down, badly tangled where her head had pressed against the pillow. She lifted the lid of a small box that contained a hairbrush and ivory hairpins, and set to work.

When her dark chestnut hair was once again arranged and pinned up to her satisfaction, Vivienne smoothed her rumpled dress. If a servant should come in, hard at work before dawn to clean the grates and lay new fires, she would not look too disheveled.

Of course, she was not supposed to care what servants thought, but the role of mistress of a household was still new to her. The Cheyne Row house was hers, certainly. Horace had deeded it to Vivienne at the conclusion of their love affair.

She had furnished it to her own taste with the large sum of money he had given her as well. Owning things that were new and entirely hers was a very great pleasure. That was why no man had yet slept in her rose-curtained bed—knowing that Kyril was likely to be the first made her smile at her reflection.

It had been worth enduring the duke’s awkward caresses now and again. He had become her lover because she was beautiful and remarked upon by everyone—a female worth having simply because everyone wanted her. Easily distracted, he had moved on eventually to someone else, an event that had troubled her not at all.

His regretful letter of farewell had explained everything. She remembered it but hadn’t bothered to keep it.

I shall remain, my dear Vivienne, ever your champion and obedient servant, and wish you happiness in each and every day of your life without me. Do understand that it is I who am unworthy, and not you. But I have met…

A brassy-haired actress who had all of London at her rather large feet. Vivienne had seen her, but only from a distance.

She did not miss the duke as a lover, if that word could be used to describe him. But she was very grateful to him. She straightened up tall as she looked at herself in the mirror. Being bought off was not the worst thing that could happen to an intelligent and independent woman. The philandering duke had provided handsomely for her.

Vivienne went to the shelves and began to set her other books to rights, tucking in the ones that went on and off the shelves, novels and the like. Their worn covers showed her affection for them. She blew the dust off more worthy volumes, leatherbound and ponderous, that she had yet to crack. She felt calmer now. What she had seen was only an illusion.

Seen, heard, smelled, said a little voice in her mind.

She ignored it. Her fatigue—and frustration had left all her senses overly stimulated. In any case, the volumes of folktales was a thoughtful gift and could not be left on the floor. She pushed over the leaning books on one shelf, and slanted one to hold a space open. Then she went to where the book still lay facedown, picking it up.

How silly she was to imagine herself bewitched by it. Forcing her actions to seem casual even though there was no one there to judge her, she slid a finger between its pages, hearing a familiar crinkle of transparent paper. Another illustration. She flinched when she opened the book to look at it.

It showed a Roemi warrior, fallen in battle, his broken body lying alone upon the killing field. His wounded face was still beautiful, even in death.

She dared not touch the page. The hand-colored blood seemed so fresh as to be real. As respectfully as one might shroud the dead, she covered the valiant hero with the transparent paper again, half-expecting to see the scarlet pigment seep through.

It did not. The blood—the paint, she told herself fiercely—was quite dry.

Very slowly she looked through the pages and found the first Roemi warrior she’d seen.

He had thrown his spear.

Vivienne gave a soft cry. If this was a trick, it was a very good one. Kyril must have expected that she would say something about it to him, but she simply accepted his gift at the time, feeling awkward for weeks afterward because she had not yet read it. Not even skimmed it so that she could pretend she had.

Was Kyril only a conjuror and a charlatan, and not a rich Russian gentleman, after all?

His air of mysteriousness had been noted and commented upon nearly as often as his sexual magnetism. That too could be practiced just like magic, she thought. He had been charming women ever since he arrived in London, according to all reports. Perhaps his paramours each got a little book like this.

No. The old volume was unique, and probably quite valuable. There could not be others like it, not with richly colored illustrations like that.

She turned the pages again, looking only at the pictures. The words behaved themselves, staying on the paper in neat rows of black type. Then she came to the concluding illustration.

Scolding herself for being so gullible, she lifted its protective page and gasped. Her eyes widened. The picture showed a wild and desolate land, buried in towering drifts of snow and ice.

She snapped the book shut. It was the otherworld she had glimpsed in Kyril’s eyes.